On the proper care of pets
by I'm Nova
Summary: Season 4 AU. Eurus escaped long ago, thanks to her not correctly acknowledged powers. But she really just wants the best for everyone. Especially her favourite brother. Now, if only he could take a hint...Halloween tale, will earn the M next chapter.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own a single thing. A.N. This is S4 AU. Very AU. But I hope you'll like my version of things! The deepest thanks to my dearest missmuffin221 for encouraging me to write this, and to Chrwythyn, gem among the gems, for betaing this in a rush. There will be a second part, but honestly I am not sure when. Not quickly anyway. I apologise, but my own plot bunny wouldn't rest._

On the proper care of pets

Eurus stretched and adjusted her hair, in preparation for her next patient. How surprised would their brothers be to find her working for Queen and country…well…sort of. Honestly, she'd always been so misunderstood. She wasn't exactly evil. She was simply undertrained.

The scenario is this: you have some, well, let's call things their name, supernatural powers. Which apparently manifested strictly in the female line, so her brothers never had to deal with them. Your mum – the one who *might* have an idea what's going on – refuses to explain because she threw away all that silliness to devote herself entirely to the goddess Science. Of course you're bound to mess up along the way once or twice.

But she'd never meant to hurt anyone. And honestly, she hadn't meant to spirit Victor away! She wasn't sure even now exactly where she sent him, might be Timbuktu, might be the Himalayas. She just wanted him to stop hogging all her favourite brother's time. She felt sure though – the way knowledge came to her sometimes, without actual 'evidence' – that he was still alive. If she'd murdered anyone – even accidentally, by misplacing him into a volcano or in a minefield – the spiritual backlash would be violent and unmistakable.

So no, she wasn't going to let herself be whisked away to…Alcatraz, or whatever its name was. It was surprising how honed her powers became when survival was at stake. She'd die in there, and die insane, but then again, how could she expect uncle to understand, he was a man. And on dad's side to boot.

Escaping – and making a new identity for herself – had been relatively easy. It was a pity that she couldn't keep in contact with her family anymore, at the very least not in person. Of course, she had her ways of keeping tabs on them. But she needed a life. A job. And turning to the exploitation of her powers didn't appeal to her. At least not in the classic I'll read your tarots way.

Above everything – that was something she had in common with Sherlock, she supposed – she wanted to _help_. And with her ability to influence people, if she put her mind to it (and with a bit of extra help, fine), a career in psychology had seemed the most obvious path. Before she realised what happened, she was enlisted to help with the veterans. Serving someone who served the country, so to speak. Not that she complained. Too many couldn't adapt back, once home. Eurus prided herself in not having lost even one of them to self-destruction, despite the depressing statistics for the category.

And here he was, her next patient. The file said John Watson. Captain John Watson. Doctor John Watson. Shot in the line of duty, and so on. What the file didn't say, the man's aura, grey and dull like pent-up smoke, told her. This man was vanishing, right in front of her. His soul consumed itself with guilt and self-recrimination.

Eurus tried to establish a conversation. To make him say something…anything that wasn't a platitude about the weather. But Watson was damn stubborn. He didn't trust her, obviously. She was a stranger, and he patently assumed she didn't care at all, as long as the government kept paying for his sessions. If she'd told him that she honestly wanted to help him, the man wouldn't have believed her. She'd bet that he didn't feel very worthy of being helped in the first place.

Well, there was one thing she could suggest. If he wouldn't talk to her about his life, he could talk to someone else – anyone else, really, as long as he stopped playing armadillo. A blog seemed like a sound idea. Shout into the void…and before you know, you'll find someone who understands. That's how it'd been for her, when she'd been a fugitive with a rather vague idea of what she could do. True, you met assholes too…but Captain Watson was more than equipped to deal with being hated. It was all the rest of normal life that might prove a challenge.

He agreed with a nod. Taught better than to openly oppose people of authority. He wouldn't retort that her plan was shit, even if he thought so. But he would ignore her prompt. Of course he would. Why should he bother? It wasn't like he would ever be better. She smiled at herself, saying goodbye to him. He would _try_ to ignore her… but she had her trump card.

A day later, John Watson was sitting in his dismal bedsit, staring at the computer that was one of his few worldly possessions. The soldier in him was used to taking orders without questioning them. The doctor knew that following a specialist's suggestions – or at least attempting to – was a patient's duty. Why would they even go to a doctor otherwise?

He'd gone as far to make a profile and fill the required fields for a blog on a free website. That should count for something, right? Actually writing or – worse – publishing, though…that was another kettle of fish. Sharing what? His experiences? His feelings, God forbid? Why would he? At best, no one would care, and his posts would die the death of all ignored blog posts. At worst, some idiot would smell out the weakness in him and start harassing him.

Maybe that was what his shrink hoped? Did she know that he was contrary enough to survive the emptiness of his existence just because some idiot was sending him death threats? The Watsons were experts at self-destroying, just ask his dad or Harry, but they were stubborn enough to stick to their guns until they proved their bullies wrong.

The idea brought a lopsided smile to his lips. Writing "I'd be very grateful if you might send me anon hate," would make for a weird post for sure, but he doubted that his therapist would appreciate that much. In the end, he decided to close the pc. He would have time to write a post tomorrow. Or the day after. Or…eventually. He'd made the first step. Surely that was enough.

Before he could close the window on his computer screen, a sharp nip on his leg distracted him. Grumbling, "A bloody rat problem; just what this bloody bedsit needed," John looked down to find the pest.

What he saw made him rub his eyes, and look again. Nope. Still there. So, okay, he *might* have had a drink. It wasn't like there was much else to do. But it was just the one – not enough to make him hallucinate, surely?

Another bite confirmed that no, the critter was definitely not in his imagination. This still didn't explain how it got in. If he'd got a pet bunny, he would remember it…Especially if the beige ball of fluff (why was everything shit-coloured in his new life?) sported fangs rather than his usual teeth – as if normal bunnies weren't bitey enough – and an even more incongruous pair of both wings and deer antlers.

Ok, breathe. It had to be someone's pet. Maybe a child in his condo had decided that she was in a Halloween mood, despite the holiday being one month and half ago, and dressed up her pet? Though he didn't see any immediate glue or harness, but it had to be there. Simply put, rabbits did not grow wings. Much less 'horns' unless ill, and even then, they didn't look like that.

Well, rabbits didn't do a good many things – one of them was appear in locked houses. The war had left John a bit paranoid (he could admit that) and there was no way that he'd left the front door open. True, the window was open – the bedsit was small and suffocating enough even that way – but a rabbit was no cat. And these wings couldn't be functional, could they? Besides, he'd have noticed the critter if it flew inside, no matter how numbed he was. Unless the fanged, winged bunny could sometimes become invisible too…

And he was back to the hallucination theory. Could this really be a byproduct of his own fucked up brain? At least the nightmares about Afghanistan made sense…Why would he invent such an absurd creature? Distracting himself from an annoying chore surely didn't need such flights of fancy?

The bunny jumped on his lap, eliciting a small oof from him. It looked like a weird ball of fluff, but it was a surprisingly heavy ball of fluff. If it was a mind trip (but he hadn't taken any drugs, had he? so why would this happen) it was an extremely detailed one, all senses involved. Maybe all he needed was a padded cell.

The prospect made him shiver and pet the thing instinctively, seeking to comfort himself. Instead, the damn thing bit him. Again. It didn't foam at the mouth or have other symptoms to make him suspect it might have contracted rabies (small consolation for one's delusion) but it did turn his head, to get at his fingers, in a way that no living creature should be able to do. It figured that even his fluffiest visions would be spooky bastards.

It hadn't broken the skin, at least, but still John waved his hand to chase the sting away…and at the same time, the bunny from hell hit the table and – almost – his keyboard with a powerful back kick.

"Shoo," he growled, "you'll break it." If rabbits could give pointed looks, this one surely was giving him one – and judging him, too. "Wait, are you – giving hints? Do you want me to write the damn blog?" John said. Oh, perfect. Now he was talking to his delusions.

The… _thing_ flew (functional wings, then) over his bed, made itself comfortable, and kept staring at him expectantly. If this was his brain's way of telling him to get down and fucking write, his brain was weirder than he'd always thought.

Angrily, he punched Nothing in the title section. He wasn't going to write a post about 'I have visions of winged rabbits'. Maybe it would be best for him, but he wasn't looking forward to being committed. The bunny still stared. Defiantly, John wrote Nothing again in the body of the post and hit publish. His madness could make him write, but it couldn't make him _share_. At next glance, the creature had disappeared. Thank God.

If John had hoped that his hallucination would be a one-off, he was disappointed. It didn't matter if he didn't touch a drop of alcohol anymore, if he tried sleeping better in case it was a brain misfire from lack of sleep, or how regulated (boring) his life became.

Every now and then, Fluffy (that was the nickname he'd given to the thing, despite its biting habit and grouchy general attitude) would reappear and not give him peace until he'd posted something. A word was enough, at the start. After a while, it would require more.

John…had an odd relationship with it. On one side, he hated how his brain could produce such an odd concoction…and a demanding one to boot. On the other, he would spend all his time looking up cat videos without the frustratingly annoying reminder of his duties. The one duty he still had, after losing every role he ever held.

Besides, despite looking like a judgmental chimaera almost all the time, Fluffy was…a bit cute. And as long as he still used one hand (fine, one finger, but he wasn't great with tech) to write, the bunny didn't actually mind if he buried the other in its soft fur, or tickled the outer feathers of its incongruous wings. When its fangs weren't nipping at you, they gave it almost a silly air.

The doctor had expected his visions to disappear with the rest of his psychosomatic symptoms, once Hurricane Sherlock took over his life. He didn't wallow in self-pity or stare too long at his gun anymore (no time for it, when he needed to ensure that his flatmate's recklessness didn't kill them all). So why would Fluffy haunt him still? Where had he seen a wolpertinger's image (that's what this particular chimaera was called – after a 'visit' too many by the creature he'd given up and googled it) and why had it seared itself into his brain so deeply?

Honestly, he was scared that the consulting detective would realise he was as insane as a whole army of hatters, but at least his one remaining symptom was oddly limited and didn't seem to endanger anyone. Just, if he went too long without updating the blog (because he was busy, lazy, because they worked for Mycroft and he would be flayed if he revealed any details) Fluffy – or should he call the critter Wolpy? ..No, that was ugly, Fluffy it was – would come back to haunt him and oversee that he did his homework. John was very careful not to acknowledge it or interact with it anymore, not even if he was alone. After all, his flatmate was everything but a fan of consistent, predictable routine, and could pop in any second (or not at all for 3 days). He missed the softness of its fur, though, and then scolded himself harshly for it. This had to cease. He was too scared of the consequences to mention it to his therapist, though.

Then that day…well, night ... came. They had a difficult case for a week – a good 7 and half, according to the sleuth – and they were both knackered. John crashed, falling on his bed still half-dressed, and he fully expected his friend to do the same. Instead, he was woken not long after by a violin melody, and a haunting one at that. That was it. He galloped downstairs, determined to send his insane flatmate to sleep by bodily dragging him to the bedroom if necessary. (And damn his lizard brain for suggesting things like co-sleeping – to ensure that Sherlock stayed in bed – and then…well, being so quick to develop that scenario that he wasn't just red in anger by the time he arrived downstairs).

He was ready to yell, when a look made him snap his mouth closed. Sherlock was playing his violin, bathed in moonlight, like an ethereal vision…and, well, not Fluffy – since his coat shone a midnight blue – but at the very least his first cousin. The wolpertinger sat on the coffee table and stared at the musician with the judgmental air John knew so well.

Sherlock blinked at his noisy entrance. "Oh…sorry, did we wake you up? I didn't mean to, but I have to keep in exercise with my tunes, you see…" he said softly, nodding vaguely towards the creature from hell.

"Wait, you…you see it too?" John remarked hoarsely.

"See it? Of course I see it. And if I didn't, I would feel it soon. He doesn't like to be ignored, though there are ways to bargain with him. My sister is supposed to be dead, but apparently her favourite pet still cares enough to make sure I practice regularly. She taught me to play, you see, and she would sic him on me anytime I was too lazy to repeat my scales and arpeggios," the sleuth explained, shrugging.

Midnight (John's christening originality wasn't the best, but he was truly knackered) had stopped glaring and jumped down the table first and then flew out the window, apparently having decided that getting his pupil to practice more was a lost cause.

"I'll need to hear more about it, but – in the morning," the blogger remarked with a huge yawn.

Sherlock waved, mumbled another, "Sorry," then lay his violin on the table and shuffled back to his own bedroom. Bless John for saving him from another hour of practice at least.

The following day (more afternoon than morning) they both woke up, finally refreshed, and – after a hearty breakfast and lots of coffee courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, "just this once" of course – John started the conversation again. "So, you said yesterday that you can bargain with the…creature?"

The detective nodded. "The breed is intelligent. More than Anderson, I'll bet. They definitely understand human language. You can ask for a reprieve, if you motivate it. I'm on a case, this experiment is time sensitive, it's my turn to bring Mummy to the musicals tonight. He'll disappear, but he'll be back, always, – bigger and hungrier, and determined to keep you pinned to your task for longer. And once, the first time it came back after my sister…well, I'd spent a whole year without being able to touch my violin. Apparently he had formed a family, because there was a whole nest of them, a beige partner and so many kittens …and they all wanted me to play something specific, for some reason. Since then, I try not to let more than a few months at most pass without playing, no matter how tired I am, lest they keep me at it for ten hours," he said matter-of-factly.

The first sentence ripped a chuckle out of the doctor, but then he quieted and listened intently to the story. He would have thought his friend under some drugs' effect, if he hadn't been haunted himself. "Duly noted. Thank you. Any treat they like? I would love to be in their good books, maybe they'll feel less like taking a bite out of me." Faced with Sherlock's puzzled stare, he shrugged. "Never mind. As if you would keep track of anyone's food, when you can't be harassed to eat your own."

"I have a question too. I didn't mention it before because, well, it seemed as if it could sound a bit not good, and I would have sworn Mycroft should have taken care of that already anyway, but…can I meet your therapist? They are the one insisting you blog, and I've never seen anyone else having the same pet as my sister's, much less training them the same way. She said she found it in the garden and…I'm not sure why nobody questioned her, she was great at having her way," the detective queried.

"Well, that seems definitely like a genetic trait," John quipped, smiling at him. "But…sure. Please don't deduce her to an inch of her life though, she might have been slightly mistaken on my diagnosis, but the blog brings you cases, so that was at least a decent idea."

"I'll try. I didn't know your therapist was a lady," Sherlock said, frowning slightly. Then he deliberately relaxed his face, joking, "how is it that you haven't dated her yet?"

"I do have some measure of ethics, you know. And I have enough self-preservation to not like going after impossible things," his blogger replied. Not enough not to yearn after them, true, but with Sherlock in the flat, his therapist was as good as invisible.

Eurus wasn't keeping track continually of everyone under her care – she wasn't Mycroft, thank you very much – but she still was sensitive, and alert to people seeking her out. A soul thread vibrated, warning her of a prompt visit. Oh well. She hadn't encouraged it, not openly, but she didn't mind a reunion. Sherlock was a nice brother. Too nice for his own good sometimes. Maybe he would talk to Mycroft and point out that she didn't need to be jailed anymore.

She had a recompense ready for him. She tried to give them some hints, sending, of all her wolpertinger herd, the mate of her brother's overseer to deal with Watson. A witch felt these things – soulmates, affinities in general… But since Sherlock refused to get the clue, well, that meant that she needed to give a more energetic push. She wanted her brother happy, after all. Time to bake.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. I know, I know, I'm unforgivable. One year to update the story is downright awful. My deepest apologies, everyone. I could say the Muse is fickle, but that'll still not be any justification. So I'll just say that I hope you enjoy this ending anyways!_

John stalled on the threshold of his therapist's office. The blood red cakes and dainty tea set with some sort of leaves on it were new. Had he got the hour wrong?

"Come in, John. I promise, it's all right," she replied, with a half smile more playful than her usual professional mask.

"About that…" He still didn't move, glaring to the side at an increasingly more impatient Sherlock.

"It might not be standard procedure, but you only need to count the cups to know I don't object to the company you brought," she replied.

Out of excuses, he came inside, Sherlock marching after him. Eurus didn't even throw them a glance, busying herself instead fixing tea for everyone. She didn't ask for their preference but it was, of course, perfect.

"You've deduced my presence today," the detective started, after taking a seat and his first sip. Mummy had managed to get a minimum of manners into him, but he would never really behave.

She answered, "Not like it was hard," and shrugged. He frowned. Always hated not being the most intelligent in the room…which happened regularly at home. Time to feed him a clue. "You suspect at least, or you wouldn't be here. It should be obvious I can anticipate your moves, Locket."

John choked on his tea – she really should have timed it better – but once the detective patted his back a couple of times, he finally managed to giggle out, "Locket?" Ten seconds later he realised nobody else found this funny. His therapist looked simply expectant, and Sherlock was…glaring?

"So when did you meet her?" the sleuth asked.

"Meet who?" his blogger echoed, tilting his head.

"Oh for the love…do you really think the wolpertingers would do just anyone's bidding? I thought you were an expert in disguises! I'm still me, and you're slower than usual." She snapped her fingers, and the bespectacled, anodyne countenance she used with easily alarmed veterans changed into her long-faced, pale, own, black hair cascading to the small of her back.

Instinctively, John pulled his gun on her – see? This was why you didn't surprise former military – but thankfully Sherlock was as quick to react. He yelled, "No!" grabbing his friend's arm and pointing the weapon at the floor.

"What?" John asked, equal parts confused and spooked.

"She... looks considerably like my sister. Or at least like she would look if she had ever got to grow up. Which means the tea was drugged, but – all the more reason not to shoot, don't you think?" the detective explained.

"Fair point." The gun went back in the doctor's pocket.

Eurus sighed deeply. "I knew you'd have thought that. In fact, my first plan was not to let you get in at all – to send us all on a merry walk, with you taking the lead, so you couldn't think I lead you somewhere I had set up, and do all this out in the open. I wouldn't have a chance to drug the air of half London, would I?"

"You wouldn't," Sherlock agreed, "and that's why you didn't."

"No silly, I didn't because turning you away at the door without even a cup of tea…well, I've been brought up better than that. Okay, and also because I don't really like the ants having the biggest part of my baking, and I know you, Locket. You'd want to study their patterns or something, instead of listening," she replied, pushing the tray towards them. Fruitlessly, but that was to be expected.

John giggled again, mumbling, "Sounds like him, alright," and she was very satisfied that the little something she added to the tea showed her this. She'd been a bit afraid that there were darker depths in him than even she could feel, but no – his bottom was sweet. Oh damn, the bottom of his soul was sweet.

She giggled, too. "But really, how can you accept the wolpertingers and not that I might be capable of some extra endeavour, no drugs involved, is mystifying."

"Just because some rabbits have had a mutation, or…escaped from Baskerville, and you found them, it doesn't make you a - what? What are you even pretending to be?" her brother snapped.

"I'm not pretending anything, you silly. I'm your sister, and…well, a witch, I suppose you'd say, and my pets are not out of some weird government facility. Ask Mycroft if you don't believe me. Actually, ask Mycroft if he wouldn't mind dropping whatever sentence I have still pending, because as fun as this is, I'd like to be able to wear my face to shop at Tesco without worrying about him recognising me from his bloody CCTV and deciding that I need to be shut in somewhere like they'd planned. I've been a model fucking citizen, I'll have you know. But seriously, this session wasn't supposed to be about me," Eurus said, shrugging.

"Well, it was kinda meant to be about you – and the rabbits. Wolpertingers. Whatever. Why wouldn't all of you leave people alone? Sherlock said it's been decades!" John piped in.

"Because I know better, and unless someone is literally biting your ankles, neither of you stubborn arses will do what's best for you," she replied matter-of-factly.

"Are you sure she's your sister and not your ma?" the blogger asked his companion.

She cut the cake for them, pushing two twin slices towards her boys. "Come on – have a bite now, and you can make suppositions later," she ordered, raising an eyebrow.

"Definitely your ma," John remarked, nodding to himself.

"Honestly John, she's not a relative because my sister is _dead_ and we're all drugged to the gills – and how she thinks we'll accept anything else from her I don't know," Sherlock sniffed.

…Only to notice that John, despite his medical degree, was scarfing down his cake. And ended up licking his lips to catch any stray crumbs. Damn. The blond shrugged. "Well, we're drugged already. If she wanted to kill us she'd just have poisoned the tea, wouldn't she? And adding different drugs to different things…isn't that a bit of an overkill? Come on. It's good," he said, ending in a moan. He took Sherlock's slice, and looked ready to feed him by hand.

That, the detective didn't even try to resist. Even after catching Eurus' self-satisfied smirk, that – after swallowing, because damn John was right, the taste was amazing – made him blurt out, "She has!"

Eurus shrugged. "Yeah I have, but neither is poison. Or drugs, in your sense of the word. Or anything remotely questionable. The tea? Just a bit of truth serum – something to expose your cores because damn, I'd like for the fate that everyone has seen coming, no matter how ordinary they are, to actually happen before you're both retired because of sheer old age, you know?"

John blushed. Sherlock glared, still unconvinced, but mostly spiteful, because if she thought that he'd survive to be old enough to retire, she wasn't as good as she thought. Sooner or later, John would definitely leave him, enchanted by one woman or another. Besides, criminals couldn't all have bad luck, statistically speaking. There was no need to say it aloud, of course. If she was a semi-competent therapist, never mind having odd powers, she should be able to decipher his look.

She sighed. "I shouldn't have drunk the tea, too. It always makes me snarky, sorry. As for the cake…just a little extra nudge for what's inevitably going to happen, as soon as you answer me a couple of questions. I'd say answer truthfully, but well, I already ensured that, since I cannot count on you to, otherwise. Honestly, men."

"That's not fair," John grumbled, eyeing the cakes pensively.

"Well, that's half fair. Let's go on with my questions so I can let you free, shall we? So, John, are you in love right now?"

"Yup," the blogger said, biting his lips. Damn, there was so much he wanted to say, but Sherlock couldn't know!

Eurus sighed again. "And what's the name of the person you're in love with?"

"Oh come on, it's obvious!" John yelled.

Yes, yes it was. But it was the first time someone resisted the philtre. Damn the man's stubbornness. He was special though, no doubt. Which explained why Sherlock was head over heels about him. "Yes, but please, for the painfully oblivious in this room, and as your therapist, would you just say the name of the person you've been pining after?" she snapped. Well, painfully oblivious sounded better than terrified of rejection. She didn't drink more than a sip of tea.

"Sherlock." It was barely audible, but it was there. And thank God their mum decided on the weirdest names she could think of, otherwise her little brother was so determined on self-sabotaging that would have assumed it was an homonym. But how many Sherlocks were out there?

The detective had been staring at her, suspicious, but at that, his head swivelled towards his companion. "Seriously?" he rumbled.

John nodded, almost solemnly. Now that the truth was out, he wasn't going to deny it. She wasn't surprised to see her brother leap from his chair to start kissing his soulmate. But she wasn't going to have them go at it all over the desk, either. She snapped her fingers, and rose. She took both men by the nape, and without dislodging them from each other too much, started guiding them towards the exit. The wolpertingers had appeared, and some light biting helped her steer them.

Okay, her bad, the cake had been overkill. But she was dead tired of them both being so frustratingly inhibited. Eurus managed to summon a cab (okay, she might have used some of her skills), paid the poor man in advance for the trip back to Baker Street, and physically pushed the two lovebirds inside. That was it. Her job was done.

Mycroft could thank her later, if Sherlock actually remembered to mention her being back to him, for having solved the painful-to-watch dance these two insisted on. Mummy would be happy to have a wedding to celebrate, no doubt. Still, she wouldn't expect any text before a month or so. Between Locket actually managing to get out of a bedroom, and Mycroft running his billion checks on her, she'd be lucky if it didn't take her brothers longer to acknowledge she existed. Oh well. She'd managed without them until now – she would find ways to keep busy. Maybe set up someone else. This matchmaking business was a welcome respite from her usual, somewhat dreary job.

As for the boys, they managed to catch their breath at some point, and – with a herculean effort – stopped the progress of their reciprocal exploration. Their first case had imprinted in both the 'cabbie…must check that he's actually going towards proper destination' routine, and even if there wasn't an inch of space between them, they were still mostly aware of the world. They didn't have to be for long, thankfully for everyone. The taxi rushed to Baker Street at top speed, its driver rightfully not trusting the two lovebirds to behave for more than a handful of minutes.

At Baker Street, many delighted people were treated to the sight of the two kissing against the front door as if there was no tomorrow, all thoughts of actually getting the key in the lock abandoned. Or, more specifically, the dominant thought was getting a much bigger thing into a different Lock. The public included, among others, a grinning landlady, head-shaking neighbours thinking back on their own exploits, a couple of fans that had hoped to get the sleuth and/or the blogger's autographs, and a relieved goon assigned from Mycroft to watch his brother through every available CCTV, because honestly watching the pining was starting to be physically painful.

It was only after 3 and half minutes of spectacle that Mrs. Hudson decided that someone needed to act before the spectacle went on much further than law and decency allowed. She swung the door open, letting her tenants stumble inside – Sherlock just barely catching himself, but John ready to hold him – and then going back into her flat with a stern, "You better make it upstairs."

They somehow did – displeasing their landlady was anathema – but once inside the flat, all bets were off. Brains definitely offline, it was the turn of roving mouths, exploring hands, clothes tossed haphazardly around the rooms, and soft moans getting exponentially louder. "Jawn," and "Now," were the only recognisable words of the English language leaving the detective's mouth. John, for his part, went definitely nonverbal, his own groans more often than not muffled by his beloved's skin. He loved Sherlock Holmes, and everyone who would see his partner tomorrow would have no doubts about that.

They kissed, caressed and stumbled their way to the detective's room – facing another, useless staircase had never been in question – and finally fell on the bed, giggling at their own lack of coordination. When Sherlock seemed to slither away from under him, John instinctively tried to gently restrain him, but his hands were batted away – the sleuth was just getting his lube. In fact, he was so far from trying to escape that, once he obtained it, he trapped the other with his crossed legs.

"If you love me, _love me_."

John didn't need it to be repeated, and was all too happy to snatch the box from his beloved's hands and go to town. He wriggled just enough to be allowed to scoot lower. Sherlock's scream – which probably not just the married ones but also the Queen heard loud and clear – announced how much the man enjoyed his idea of distracting his partner from the uncomfortable part of preparation by swallowing his cock whole, and then doubling down by prodding his prostate. Oh, how he loved the perks of being a doctor.

Still, the detective wouldn't be patient for long – and to be honest, neither was he. If 'the drugs' had a hand in making Sherlock relax, he would never be sure. But soon Sherlock was ready – more than ready – and John, compliant as ever, _loved him_ – body and soul, powerful thrusts, and broken praises now spilling from his mouth, more in control of himself than he'd felt since that first sip of tea.

They fell asleep afterwards, still in each other's embrace, their heartbeats the sweetest lullaby. When John woke, the following morning, he was ready to panic – they were both drugged, and they had, and this would ruin it all, and he should have known better…The one thing he didn't need was a judgmental couple of wolpertingers in their kitchen. "You!" he yelled. "You better flee before I make you both into a casserole!"

His yells awakened Sherlock, who trailed into the kitchen – still gloriously nude – asking, "What's wrong, love?" around a yawn.

"You…are you still drugged?" John stammered.

The detective stared him down, as if his flatmate was a whole execution platoon. "Would you want me to be?"

"I want the truth, Sherlock. Just that," he replied, eyes fixed on the kettle he'd just turned on.

"It appears that…whatever she gave us…was more like a drink than a drug. You know, in vino veritas, and all that." The detective shrugged.

John knew all that. Every time time Harry was drunk, everything she wouldn't normally say came spewing forth. Pity that in her case it was mostly bitterness and self-pity. And certainly, what he'd said and done yesterday was true to his own feelings. Could he hope? "So," he asked, "would you do everything again with a clear head and no meddling, from siblings or otherwise?"

Sherlock grinned. "I thought you'd never ask!" He leaned to steal a kiss.

Two fluff balls disappeared, completely ignored by the lovebirds. They had a success to report.


End file.
